


Limitations Of A Legacy

by SaneAndStable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Growing Up Together, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaneAndStable/pseuds/SaneAndStable
Summary: Canon-Divergence AU. Rose Weasley plans to be the greatest witch of her generation. But there are hiccups along the way. Magical prodigies, mysterious professors and her own insecurities about what it means to be Hermione Granger's daughter, all shadow her life. With her interfering family and intrepid friends, Rose wants to forge her own path--wherever that may end up taking her.A treatise on magic, disguised as a character study, disguised as a romance, disguised as a mystery.
Relationships: Rose Weasley & Albus Severus Potter & Scorpius Malfoy, Rose Weasley & Hermione Granger, Rose Weasley & Ron Weasley, Rose Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Limitations Of A Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skill, talent and hard work can make almost anything happen -- except for a friendship. But luck, in the form of a strategic decision made by an interested party, can help eleven-year-old Rose Weasley out, just this once.

**I**

Eleven-year-old Rose Weasley intended to be the best student in her year at Hogwarts. With luck, the best student in a decade. With even more luck, the best student Hogwarts had seen since her mother. She’d carefully constructed a plan to match these ambitions, a plan that dated back to her eighth birthday, where after many tantrums and appeals to her father (who was always more susceptible than her mum,) she’d gotten hold of the books needed for her first year at Hogwarts. 

Rose didn’t look back after that.

Armed with knowledge, passion, an ironclad willpower and under the shadow of her mother’s achievements, Rose arrived, intending to take Hogwarts by storm. She would top every year, make Head Girl, and deliver a relatable but inspiring speech as class valedictorian (a tradition imported from Ilvermorny) before jumping into the arms of her cheering classmates (this last one, Rose conceded, may have been a reach.)

None of these things happened. 

Or to be confusingly clear, _some_ of these things happened, but not all, and not in the way Rose expected it. 

To be fair to her, it was only a very specific twist in the tale, courtesy of the collective wisdom of the universe that managed to upend all these carefully laid plans. 

The twist in the tale had a name. 

Zara Khan.

Heir to the crown of Agardabah, princess of the Royal Family of Dasmarra and magical prodigy of the likes the world had never seen. Or to be more confusingly specific once again, the likes the _western_ magical world had never seen. 

Certainly, something _Rose_ had never seen.

But when she did see—and it happened in, all things considered, the most spectacularly inoffensive manner—Rose did not forget, and worse, saw her dreams slowly dissolve into nothing. It was good then, that Zara Khan courteously gave her new dreams to pursue. 

* * *

**II**

Unlike her mother, Rose dove into her first year at Hogwarts with unbridled enthusiasm and was received, in turn, with rampant eagerness. As an adult she would realise that while her mother gave her the brains, her father’s congenial spirit gave her friends, something that she took for granted and never thanked him for. Rose was polite and interested with strangers, humorous and reciprocative with friends and a downright mischievous troublemaker with her best friends: a group that would add and remove new members through the years but at its core remained her cousin Albus, and his friend Scorpius. Being the only Gryffindor in the trio did the opposite of bother Rose: the cross-cultural leaning led her to become friends with people from other houses and she always had her Gryffindor dorm mates (with the exception of Mara who hated her on principle) as a safe space. 

Even if Rose _wasn’t_ naturally effervescent, approachable and amiable, the afterglow of her family’s deeds would have carried her easily through Hogwarts. No one wanted to _not_ be friends with the Weasleys; the family that had saved the Wizarding World from tyranny and oppression. (Again, we must specify that it was the British, and by extension, European Wizarding World that was saved.) 

So it came as a bit shock then, when Rose first met Zara Khan—the aloof, alone and arrogant Slytherin first year that Scorpius had promptly managed to develop an unshakable crush on—that she (Rose that is) found herself summarily dismissed. 

“Don’t mind her,” Scorpius whispered to Rose hurriedly as Zara vanished around the corner, “she’s a bit shy. She’s only friends with me—because, well, our families—you know—” 

Scorpius’ unending network of friends and acquaintances—thanks to the Malfoy name—stretched twice around the globe and then some. Albus and Rose had already begun taking bets with every new person they met, that Scorpius would either already be friends with, know of, or have heard spoken about by his father. 

Despite Scorpius’ reassurances, Rose _did_ mind. Her predisposition towards friendliness, a sunny nature, and of course her last name meant that people not only wanted, but also went out of the way, to be friends with her. Zara Khan’s rudeness hurt and in classic fashion made Rose determined to prove to her that she was an excellent person to talk to, and be friends with. That Zara Khan treated everyone else (barring Scorpius perhaps) the same way, did nothing to diminish the sheer injustice of the affair. It was one thing when someone made her acquaintance and then decided against it (like Mara who developed an intense dislike for her after one conversation about _The Weird Sisters_ on the train,) but quite another to not even give Rose a _chance_ to shine. 

So Rose tried. She really did: stopping by after class, cornering Zara in corridors and even outside the library—where Zara seemed to spend most of her time—but to no avail. Zara Khan would offer monosyllabic responses and vanish from the scene with startling efficiency. Rose’s need to prove her worth might have faded in an ordinary fashion had both participants in this dance been the average Hogwarts student, but alas, it was not to be, and thus we are given this story. 

* * *

**III**

It happened in Charms class, in the third week of term. 

After corralling the first-years into learning the difference between a charm, a jinx, a hex, and a curse for six consecutive lessons, Professor Witherwatch finally unveiled the most-anticipated subject: the levitation charm. 

Rose had silently sat through three weeks of theory because she had an ace up her sleeve. She could already do the charm, thanks to extensive practice over the summer with her patient father. That her mother did not approve was something the both of them strove to remember and keep secret, albeit one kept easily since her mother—the newly minted Minister of Magic—was rarely home. Now, armed with the spell that she could confidently do in her sleep, Rose drummed her fingers through the detailed instruction and when told to begin, rolled up her sleeves with barely suppressed impatience. Professor Witherwatch—who already approved of her prompt answering in class—was sure to award points for this unmitigated display of sheer talent. 

Rose had barely begun the swish-and-flick when a commotion distracted her. Her partner—Madeline Marshall—elbowed her in the ribs, and the other Gryffindors were turning around and whispering. 

“What?” Rose asked, irritated at this disruption. 

Madeline tiled her head, pointing with her chin to the other side of the class. “Look!”

Rose looked. 

Sitting with perfect poise, her angular features furrowed in annoyance, Zara Khan had her hand up in the air. That this was a rare occurrence was an understatement. Zara Khan never spoke in class willingly, never volunteered answers unless specifically questioned, and spent most of her time alternating between scratching away at parchment and staring out of the window. If it hadn’t been for their contentious meeting at the start of term, Rose might have forgotten she even existed. 

But there Zara sat, hand straight up in the air. 

Professor Witherwatch was similarly taken aback. “Yes, Miss Khan?”

Zara put her hand down and spoke in clipped, slightly accented tones, “I can’t do this spell.” 

Rose felt a small spurt of triumph. 

Professor Witherwatch frowned, edging towards exasperation. “Yes—that’s the exercise dear. With practice you—”

“You misunderstand,” Zara said, and the class around her gaped at this casual interruption. “I can’t do it because I don’t have a wand.” 

More confusion. The class began to mutter amongst themselves and next to Rose, Madeline let out a disbelieving snort. 

“You don’t have a wand?” Professor Witherwatch repeated, her eyebrows threatening to come together with the extent of her annoyance, “surely, dear, that’s on the list of requirements—”

“You misunderstand,” Zara said again, and Rose got the distinct impression she was used to saying that phrase a lot, “I don’t _need_ a wand.”

Professor Witherwatch stared, uncomprehendingly. 

“You—sorry—don’t need a wand?”

“To do this spell,” Zara clarified. 

Silence in the room.

Rose’s small spurt of triumph had died. She had an immediate premonition that her plan was going awry—was already in fact off the rails—and there was nothing she could do to get it back on track.

Zara sighed. “I’ll show you.” 

Because Rose was sat right in front, and had so turned to face all the way back—where Zara sat alone (she discouraged partners)—she (Rose) had perhaps the best view of what happened next. This best view would serve two purposes for her: it would annihilate the plan to be the best student at Hogwarts since her mother in one, fell sweep, and it would leave a lasting, distrustful impression of the boundaries of magic that would be taught painstakingly to her over the next seven years.

A flash of a deep, rich blue seemed to bounce off Zara’s face and she raised her hand. As she raised her (wandless) hand, the feather in front of her rose in tandem smoothly; no jerks or hitches, hallmarks of a first time spellcaster. 

For one long, drawn out second, the class watched spellbound. 

Then, as one, the Slytherins surrounding Zara heaved themselves backwards in fright, toppling over their chairs and tables. At the same moment, Madeline stood up and shouted, pointing her wand (unintentionally, she said later) at Zara shouting, “how is she doing that?!” Sparks erupted from the tip of the outstretched wand, flying across the distance separating the Gryffindors and Slytherins and landed on Scorpius, who leaped up in pain and knocked over Albus, who in turn prodded his feather and set it ablaze. 

Chaos ensued. Professor Witherwatch struggled to regain control. Through it all, Rose sat unmoving, watching Zara lower the feather to the table as steadily as she had raised it. She crossed her arms and ignored the bedlam, as though entirely removed from the situation she had just instigated. 

Rose never forgot the expression on her face. 

She looked _bored_. 

Rose barely remembered the rest of the day. Professor Witherwatch dragged Zara off to the Headmistress’ office and the first-years were released early. With their release, the news spread like dragonfire across the school. Every student—regardless of house, age or interest—was equally shocked and equally opinionated about what had really happened. Even the fifth, sixth and seventh years, hanging back and feigning preoccupation with their own lives, listened intently when Maddy recounted the story for the thousandth time in the Gryffindor common room. 

Rose said nothing and did nothing, lost in thought. When she finally awoke from her long introspection, she found herself at dinner, absently eating a slice of bread and apparently part of a conversation about wandless magic. 

“I know Dumbledore could do it,” said Marcus Goldstein, holding forth in their knot of Gryffindor first-years, “they talk about it in his biography.” Marcus took an enormous bite into potato and added, “noh ah Ri-ah Skee-ah one, I ‘ean.”

Mara sitting next to him rolled her eyes. “He _could_ do it but he used a wand most of the time. No one just does _all_ magic without a wand!”

“She hid a wand somewhere,” said Samantha Kettleburn, “she had to! There’s no other way.” 

“What about the incantation?” Maddy, put her elbow into the butter dish in excitement, “she didn’t say anything—we would have heard her!” 

Sam shrugged, “non-verbal magic then.” 

“That’s still very advanced magic for a first-year!” Marcus said, having successfully dispatched with his potato. 

Rose was relieved no one sought her thoughts on the matter because she didn’t know where to begin. She ate at top speed, feigned a headache and left the Great Hall to skulk near the entrance of the Slytherin common room. As dinner progressed, groups of Slytherins passed by, discussing the day’s events with jubilation. The first-years might have been terrified but the rest of the house had cause to celebrate. Something had just put them back on the map. 

Finally, long after dinner had finished, Rose’s quarries came into view, talking about, big surprise:

“I dunno,” Scorpius was saying, “she’s very hard to understand sometimes—aargh!”

This last bit was because Rose had emerged around the blind turn with a not-too-kindly expression on her face and sent him toppling backwards in surprise.

Albus helped Scorpius up. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk to him.” Rose said, levelling Scorpius with a glare, “spill the beans Malfoy.” 

Scorpius brushed himself off, annoyed. “For the last time—I don’t know anything!”

“You and Zara are friends right?” Rose said, refusing to believe him, “and friends know stuff. So—tell me!”

“We’re not friends,” Scorpios said, his voice sounding suspiciously like a wail. 

“That’s not what you told me!” Rose said. 

“Okay, fine, I may have—” Scorpius paused and looked at the stone flagstones beneath their feet, “—exaggerated things a little bit.” 

Albus rolled his eyes. 

“Look,” Scorpius said, because Rose showed no signs of leaving, “we know each other. Or rather, we know _of_ each other. My dad helped her dad find a house here. So, we met once, when we were eight. So, she sometimes talks to me.” 

“ _So_ , in these times you guys talk,” Rose said, trying not to ground her teeth, “have you ever seen a wand?”

Scorpius shrugged. “No. But it’s not like we carry our wands around poking people in the eye with them, do we?”

Rose wanted to poke _him_ in the eye with her wand. 

Albus, sensing that his cousin was fast losing patience, stepped in. “Isn’t it weird her parents sent her to Hogwarts without a wand?”

“Yeah,” Scorpius said and then gestured them both closer to say, “I heard from Reginald Jacobs—you know the brewery family—who overheard Alias Smith—the Head Boy—that Professor McGonagall summoned her dad to school.”

“Her dad?” Albus repeated, “what—like—the King?”

“Prince,” Scorpius corrected him, “although, technically, he’s Regent now.”

“Why?” Rose asked, forgetting she was annoyed with Scorpius for never once mentioning Zara Khan’s abilities and thus upsetting the carefully laid applecart of her plans of academic excellence, “why is he Regent?”

Scorpius—infuriatingly—shrugged. “Dunno. Some funny business happened in Agardabah. They live just outside London now actually.” 

Further conversation—and questioning on Rose’s part—was put to an end when a Slytherin prefect emerged around the corner. 

“Malfoy. Potter.” She caught side of Rose, “Weasley. It’s nearly curfew, get moving.” 

Bidding her friends goodbye—she was, after all, a naturally forgiving person—Rose sped back to Gryffindor Tower, a new plan beginning to unfurl in her head. All she needed was a little luck. 

* * *

**IV**

But luck couldn’t singlehandedly change Zara Khan’s personality. In fact the hubbub surrounding her abilities only intensified her aloofness. She rejected advances—Slytherin or other houses alike—and ignored overtures from older students who offered to include her in their groups. In class she settled back into barely paying attention even though the Professors now knew it was a waste to try and catch her off-guard with a question. Whatever she was scribbling on her parchment—and it wasn’t class notes, Rose was sure—it didn’t prevent her from listening, and apparently memorising, what the Professors taught. As for magic—the little practical spellwork first-years were allowed to do—Zara did without a wand, much to her classmates (and Professor’s) awe. Eventually though, the flashes of blue that emanated from her (Rose was never close enough to see what it was exactly) began to take its place in the busy schoolwork of the Hogwart’s first-years. And despite Rose’s weekly interrogations with Scorpius, she learnt precious little than what she’d already seen. 

Zara Khan could do wandless magic with ease.

How or why, Scorpius didn’t know, and didn’t dare ask for rupturing their friendship. (“They’re barely even acquaintances.” – Albus.)

And so, with a heavy heart Rose went home for the holidays. The joy of seeing her parents (her dad) and her brother disappeared in a few days and the knowledge that she wasn’t even the best in her class began to weigh on her. A decade and a half later, an adult Rose would realise where this obsession came from and finally disassociate from it with relief, but eleven-year old Rose had spent three years fixated on a goal and now with that goal threatened, she didn’t know what to do. What she should have done was speak to her father who would remind her that excellence in lessons and magic wasn’t the goal of Hogwarts, but this was also precisely the reason Rose didn’t approach him. He didn’t share the competitiveness that Rose and her mother had, nor the single-minded focus that she found so hard to break. 

If her mother had been home more, and less consumed by work, Rose might have spoken to her, but as the days passed and Rose had all of three conversations with her, the likelihood of anyone helping solve this crisis evaporated. Once again, a lesser being might have given up, but Rose was her mother’s daughter in more than just the way she looked and the way she thought. She also had willpower to match—something her father loudly and repeatedly complained about. Especially when she asked (bullied) him (in)to doing things she wanted to do. (More magic.)

So Rose returned to Hogwarts, more determined than ever to become Zara’s friend. If she couldn’t beat her outright, she needed access to this magic that confounded the very laws she’d been taught. 

And this time, luck did play its part. 

(All though, in the interests of honesty, it wasn’t luck but a strategic decision made by an interested party.)

Of all her classes, Rose loved the Defence Against the Dark Arts the most. Not because the subject matter was thrilling—first-years had no wand work at all—but because the Professor—Jamie Escar—was the kind of person Rose wanted to grow up to be. 

Professor Escar was _cool_. She was the youngest Professor—only twenty-one!—wore well-fitting robes, had a leather bracelet on her right wrist, but _most_ importantly, had a haircut that most students could only dream of pulling off. It was asymmetrical, with one side longer, near her jaw, and one side buzzed short. And get this—the buzzed side had lines shaved into it which extended to her eyebrow. Rose knew for a fact that even her cousin Victoire found Professor Escar cool, as evidenced when she eavesdropped on the seventh-years conversations in the Gryffindor common room. Meanwhile James had debated trying to mimic the hair but wasn’t sure Professor McGonagall would have let it slide. Louis, who got so sick of James dithering about whether he should cut his hair or not, ended up burning off a huge chunk at dinner, starting a haphazard duel, and landed them both in detention. 

But the real reason that Rose liked Professor Escar—who told them to call her Jamie!—was how easygoing she was. She’d glided into class on the first day and leaped up on the dais with a spring in her step and a wide smile. 

“It’s my first year at Hogwarts too,” she told the first-years staring ope- mouthed at her hair, “hopefully if we both do something right, we’ll leave in seven years with all our limbs intact.” 

It was a testament to Professor Escar’s (Jamie’s!) teaching that she managed to hold the class’s attention through long lessons about vampires, griffins and dragons, which sounded cool, but endless notes always ended up taking a toll. She’d frequently break up the lesson to talk about things: mainly what _they_ thought which Rose loved. Professor Escar treated them like adults with valid opinions and Rose couldn’t get enough of it. The biggest discussion they kept circling back to was the essence of the class: what was Dark magic? What were the Dark Arts? Professor Escar had an unnerving quality of making the simplest answers to these questions seem vague and turning a student’s opinion around to contradict themselves. It could have easily turned into bullying and belittling but she kept the tone light and frequently encouraged and rewarded students who could make her contradict herself. This Rose enjoyed immensely. When she was younger she’d verbally spar with her mother over a number of things—like vegetables—and this felt like a mature, more important variation of those times.

So when one wintry afternoon in January, Professor Escar bounded up with her usual enthusiasm, Rose smiled, looking forward to the lesson. Next to her, Maddy fidgeted with her quill. Rose had found her group of four Gryffindor friends and they all took turns sitting with each other: Rose, Maddy, Samantha and Shannon Bones, the latter whom Rose knew from childhood because their parents were friends. The other four Gryffindor girls also naturally formed their own circle, even though Mara had frequent falling outs with them, usually over matters such as failing to coordinate bag badges and cheering for the wrong Quidditch player. 

“Before we start,” Professor Escar said, tapping her wand against the board where the words GOOD and BAD began to appear, “I have good news and bad news—which do you want first?”

The class chorused back their answers. Maddy and Rose who were right in front were the loudest, shouting, “bad news! Bad news!”

“Okay, okay!” Professor Escar held up her hands, still grinning, “unfortunately the bad news doesn’t make sense without the good news first, so I apologise for pretending you guys had a choice.” She winked at them and Rose couldn’t help but laugh. The words NEWS appeared on the board next to GOOD, with a smiling face. 

Professor Escar spread her hands, “so the good news! Professor McGonagall has agreed to get rid of the midterm test!”

The class whooped in response and though Rose gamely copied her classmates, she was secretly disappointed. She had already prepared for—and was sure to ace—said test. 

“The bad news,” Professor Escar continued, “is the replacement essay.”

The class groaned.

“But!” Professor Escar bounced on her heels, “you’ll get a partner and you only have to write one essay between you both!”

Mixed reactions—mainly because of the confusion of what this meant—but Rose was intrigued. They wrote essays for homework but it was usually based on information they studied. If they were being partnered up, something bigger was afoot. 

Professor Escar sat down on her table, one leg askew. “I know, I know…” She raised her voice cutting Marcus off, “I _know_ , but I promise you that everyone in this class is capable of writing a stellar essay.”

Suspicious silence. 

“We’ve talked a lot over the last term about the Dark Arts,” Professor Escar said, “what you guys think about them, what you’ve been told about them and—most importantly—how to decide if magic is good or Dark.” She paused, and the class listened with rapt attention. “But as we’ve talked about things, we’ve realised a few things… 

“It’s hard to state magic is good or bad on its own. An example that Riaz raised—” She nodded to the small dark-eyed boy sitting behind Rose, “where even a life giving Aguamenti Charm could—potentially—drown someone.

Sebastian Cain, a smart-mouthed Slytherin who spent more time sneering than anything else, raised his hand, “and when I said how Harry Potter used the Imperius Curse when he broke into Gringotts.” 

“Exactly,” Professor Escar clapped her hands together, “so we have since agreed, that the intent behind magic is a more _helpful_ classification for what makes some magic Dark, and some not. 

“But,” She continued; “now I would like to take the discussion further. A thought exercise, if you will. For example—”

Another wave of her wand and the GOOD NEWS vanished to be replaced by two lines of text, separated into different columns. The left hand said ALL MAGIC IS BAD and the right hand said ALL MAGIC IS GOOD. The class regarded it in aggrieved silence but Rose felt a growing flicker of excitement. 

Professor Escar spun her wand between her fingers in a casual, irresistibly cool manner. “The essay you will write, will pick one of these statements and then attempt to convince the reader why it is true.”

The silence broke into annoyed chatter.

“But how—?”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“ALL magic isn’t good or bad!” Maddy said, thumping their desk for good measure, ratting Rose’s inkpot. 

Professor Escar raised her hands, “I know! I know!” She waved her wand and the words died in everyone’s throat. “I know,” she repeated with a smile and lifted the silencing charm a second later, “if I may explain?”

“Yes you _may_.” Maddy said, but she said it in a whisper that only Rose heard. 

Professor Escar waved her wand again and as she spoke, words began to appear on the board, the first of which was PURPOSE. 

“The purpose of this exercise,” she said, “is to help you to _think_. Learning defensive spells is all well and good, but picking your battles—especially _who_ you will battle with—is a far bigger concern. All of you,” her eyes swept around the room, “will learn the multitude of spells, charms, jinxes and hexes—that you now know the difference between—in your seven years here. But I would be a poor teacher if you leave Hogwarts and faced situations where you couldn’t tell the right from wrong, or _worse_ , the wrong from right.” 

“But we’re only _eleven_ ,” Scorpius said plaintively. 

Professor Escar laughed. “Yes. But it’s never too early to learn how to think. And believe me, you have all shown me your abilities far exceed what you assume them to be.” She winked at Scorpius, “even you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Next to him Albus rolled his eyes good-naturedly. 

“Pick one of the two arguments,” said Professor Escar, “after discussing it with your partner of course—”

Maddy raised her hand, “will we get to choose our own partners?”

“No,” Professor Escar said over the sudden scramble of everyone trying to lay claim to his or her friend first, “and it’s no use trying,” she added when Maddy objected. 

“In fact,” Professor Escar raised her voice, “I will be pairing you with someone from the opposite house and no—” she said louder as argument erupted, “—you can’t convince me otherwise.”

Mara’s hand shot up in the air. “What if we don’t get along with our partners?”

“Then bring the matter to me,” Professor Escar said smoothly, “but it would be a poor show from you lot if you caused problems in bad faith, _especially_ after I got the test cancelled for you.”

An embarrassed silence followed and Mara sat back in her chair in a rare moment of contrition. 

Professor Escar smiled reassuringly. “I know you will all do your best. Now to continue—” she waved her wand and more instructions appeared, “—think about how you will support your argument. Examples of instances, situations, historical events, even literary works that help make your point for you, are encouraged.

“Structure your essay. An introduction, a middle, and a conclusion, with each part leading to the next. There’s no word limit because I don’t want to confine your thoughts,” here Professor Escar swung her gaze to Maddy, “but we _will_ discuss the essay so prepare to defend your choices if you give me parchment with three sentences on it.”

Maddy looked outraged, “I would never!”

Rose privately thought she would. 

Professor Escar’s eyes twinkled and she said, “Aim for logical consistency. You will likely think of counter arguments to what you’re writing, so try to address them where you can.”

“This sounds really tough,” Scorpius said doubtfully. 

Professor Escar leaped off the table and dais and came down to stand near the front row of students. She looked Scorpius directly in the eye and said, “I promise you, I will not fail any of you.” 

“So what’s the catch?” Marcus asked from the back.

Professor Escar spread her hands, “none. All I ask is that you approach this exercise with your best. Tell me what you really think. Be honest, be genuine, and most importantly, be _you_. As long as you try—I will be pleased. And I think,” she said looking back at Scorpius, “you will be pleased with the result as well.”

Adrian Brick, sitting next to Sebastian raised his hand. Unlike his friend, Rose found Adrian to be quite lovely. “If we’re two people and only one essay, who writes it?”

Professor Escar shrugged. “Whoever has the better handwriting?”

The class laughed, and the tension that had been present since the start of the lesson eased. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Professor Escar clarified. “One—or both—of you can write it. Either way when we discuss it, I’ll know who thought of what.” She looked around, “any questions?”

No one could think of any, still digesting the unusual exercise demanded of them. 

“You can write down the instructions,” Professor Escar waved to the board behind her, “so that when you’re working, you will remember what to do. Meanwhile—” She leaped up to her desk again and fished out the class roll, “I will be assigning partners. And for everyone who complains—” she said loudly to drown out Mara who had indeed begun to complain, “—I _will_ volunteer your names for castle cleaning to Miss Mantle.”

Mara subsided and Rose laughed. Professor Escar never used the point systems to take away points, only award them. Her preferred form of punishment—that she so far only threatened with—was physical labour with Miss Mantle, the castle’s caretaker. 

“I hope I get Adrian,” Maddy said, as they unscrewed their inkpots and began writing, “he’s the only good one of their lot.”

Rose felt compelled to defend her friends. “Albus and Scorpius are good too!”

“But they aren’t smart,” Maddy said dismissively and turned to Samantha, “who would you pick?”

“I’m just happy to not get Mara,” Samantha said, to vociferous agreement from both Rose and Maddy. 

“I wouldn’t mind Albus,” Shannon said, “He’s easy to work with.” 

“Scorpius would spend his time looking up famous people he knows for their opinions,” said Maddy and Rose laughed despite herself. She liked Scorpius—liked that he wasn’t shy like her cousin who irritated her sometimes—but she’d be the first to leave when he started bringing up how he knew all the people that he knew.

Samantha said, “better Scorpius than that knob Sebastian,” which started them back on comparisons until Shannon’s name was called and she got paired with Noelle Hitchens, a quiet Slytherin who jumped when someone spoke to her. Rose waited with building nervousness as the names were called out alphabetically. Maddy was ecstatic when she got Adrian Brick and Rose held her breath when Sebastian Cain was announced—sighing in enormous relief when he was paired with Eliza Kahnwald, one of the other four Gryffindor girls. 

Rose had only just relaxed—she didn’t mind any of the Slytherins and there was a chance she could get either Scorpius or Albus—when Professor Escar called out, “Zara Khan.”

The class—noisily bickering about their partners—quieted, and even Professor Escar who had been marking names off with mechanical progress looked up. Rose—who was sat in front—couldn’t see what Zara was doing but imagined her to have been startled from whichever daydream she’d been lost in. 

Professor Escar looked around and her gaze landed on Rose. Up till now Rose got the feeling that the pairing of names was random but in that moment she locked eyes with her professor, she knew that this was a calculated decision—even if she didn’t know why. 

“Rose Weasley.”

Furious whispering broke out from her friends but an impossibly excited calm stole over Rose. She finally had a chance to become friends with the most magically confounding person she’d ever met, and by Merlin’s beard, she was going to use it.   
  
Of course, her determination only got her so far. Rose hoped that after class she’d be able to catch Zara but the girl disappeared before she’d even finished packing away her books. Annoyed, she tried again after dinner, lurking in the corridor where she’d waited for Scorpius and Albus but a Slytherin prefect shooed her off for cutting it too close to bedtime. No matter what she did, Zara Khan’s determination to not be found thwarted Rose’s determination to find her and three whole days after the essay had been assigned Rose began to panic. Even if the deadline was two months away, she wanted to do a good job. It felt too silly to approach Professor Escar with such a mundane problem but her desperation began to outweigh all worries of appearing like a snitch, until thankfully, Scorpius came through. 

“She hangs out in the library,” he told her when they were milling outside for Charms later in the week. 

“Where?” Rose demanded because of course she’d checked such an obvious place. 

Scorpius leaned closer and whispered, “behind the bookshelf closest to Madam Armas’ table. There’s reading nook hidden by another bookshelf.” 

“Oh,” Rose said, impressed that he had managed to not only crack the case but also know a spot in the library she had already spent hours in, “but why are you whispering?”

“He’s afraid the walls have ears,” Albus chortled, “and will tell Zara he’s a snitch.”

Scorpius shoved him, “shut up,” but he looked around guiltily. 

“Thanks,” Rose told Scorpius, “I owe you.” 

“You can help me with the essay,” Scorpius said promptly. “I’ve got James Merrywort and all _he_ cares about is Quidditch.” 

“Why?” Albus asked, “He can’t make the team yet.” 

“He’s trying to impress Stephen Bane,” Rose said, “everyone’s saying he’s going to be the next Gryffindor captain.” 

“Even Bane won’t help Gryffindor win the Cup,” Scorpius said and Rose shoved him. Unfortunately she did this just as Professor Witherwatch rounded the corner and got a sharp reprimand for roughhousing. Professor Witherwatch may have continued her tirade well into the lesson but Zara Khan showed up late so she got an earful instead, leaving Rose in peace for the rest of the class. 

“What’s the point?” Maddy said in her ear, “she doesn’t need to attend anything when she can do all this magic already.” 

Rose shrugged, intent on unscrewing her inkpot carefully after she’d spilled ink all over her robes earlier in the day, and said with logic that made perfect sense to her, “well she can’t be at Hogwarts and not come to class.”

* * *

**V**

Rose planned her attack carefully because she was a very good planner and she learnt from experience. First, she waited till the weekend. Next, she spent several hours lurking in the library herself, making a pile of books and jotting down many ideas for the essay on a roll of parchment. Finally, she bided her time until the library began to empty near lunchtime and then walked to the hidden corner. 

It was impressive how well the nook was hidden by a simple design flaw of two perpendicular bookshelves. If you didn’t slip in at the right moment, you’d walk past the area over and over again unable to find it. Rose couldn’t understand how her mum had never told her about this. Maybe she didn’t know?

Balancing the pile of books against her chest with one hand and clutching parchment, inkpot and quill in the other, Rose emerged into the alcove with all the grace of a newborn giraffe: i.e., she stumbled, hastily over-corrected and rightened herself unsteadily—only to take in the spectacle before her with slack-jawed disbelief. 

The Princess of Agardabah had ensconced herself into the biggest, squashiest armchair in the makeshift room. The other two chairs—one similar but significant less squishy and one hard-backed wooden one—had piles of parchment and books overflowing from their seats. Zara Khan herself sat reading a tome so massive she might have been outweighed by it, but the detail that arrested Rose’s attention:

A roll of parchment suspended midair next to her with an unaided quill scribbling on it in fast, smooth movements. 

The princess looked up and said with the natural arrogance of royalty, “yes?”

Rose mustered whatever manufactured arrogance she could—to match you see—from her legacy and said, “I’m your essay partner.”

Zara said nothing. 

“For the Defence Against Dark Arts essay,” Rose said stupidly. 

“Okay,” Zara said. 

They stared at each other. A lesser-willed person—liked Scorpius—would have found such unbearable awkwardness impolite and fled with apology but Rose summoned the knowledge that _she_ was the cool, popular one and projected it outward like a force, thus protecting her from all flak that by sticking around, she may have been, in fact, _uncool_. 

“I have some ideas,” Rose said, “and I want to discuss them with you.”

Zara watched her. The quill floating in midair paused and also seemed to watch her. “Okay,” she said at length. 

This small acquiescence was all Rose needed. She produced her wand, pointed at the other squashy armchair and said, “ _wingardium leviosa_.” 

Rose did not hope to impress someone who could achieve this same feat with no incantation, let alone no wand, so she clung to the knowledge that she had at the very least perfected the spell. Her mother would be proud. Her father would be ecstatic. 

The pile of books and parchment groaned off the chair, and Rose—for lack of space—directed them neatly to the floor. On the small table in front of them she cleared the debris of more rolled up parchment with a sweep of her hand and dumped her stuff in its place. 

Zara Khan’s annoyance at this intrusion of her fort only showed in the thinning of her lips, which were so thin to begin with that it really didn’t matter. 

“This,” Rose said, indicating to her pile of books with her wand just because it made her powerful, “is part of the reading list I’ve compiled that _I_ think will be useful in broadening our horizons _before_ we start the essay. I couldn’t bring all of them because—well—Madam Armas said there’s a limit to how many I could issue.” Rose paused, still annoyed at the injustice, and then continued, “Many of them are basic in concept but lead to interesting questions which _I_ think if we ponder over will lead to fruitful discussions.” 

Zara blinked at her, still betraying no emotion. “Okay.”

Rose—who had only just noticed the small hook shaped scar beneath Zara Khan’s left eye—hurriedly explained with an example. She picked up the first book—a slim grey volume with a white title, _The Magic of Magic_ and said, “This is an instructional first attempt to try and dissect what magic truly is.” Rose considered the book—which she had already read—for a moment and said in (what she hoped were) airy tones, “of course no one knows the answer even now but it’s a start.”

Zara said, “okay.” 

Irritated, Rose jabbed at the parchment—with her finger this time, she didn’t want to accidentally set it ablaze with sparks—and said, “it would be beneficial if we both read these books so that we are, literally, on the same page.”

“Okay.” Zara did not look as suitably impressed with the pun as hoped. Her grey eyes flitted to her motionless floating quill and back again and even though she did not say anything, Rose immediately knew she was bored again. This further enraged her and she set about presenting her ace. 

She cleared her throat in an important manner—the way she’d seen her mother do in the Ministry—and said, “ _I_ have also taken the liberty to decide that we should write our essay to defend the notion that all magic is bad.” 

She paused, waiting. Zara said nothing. Rose waited some more, determined to have her carefully orchestrated moment acknowledged, if not admired. Presently, Zara—whose eyes once more flitted to the quill—stirred in her chair, and said, “why?”

Rose ushered out her beaming smile. “Two reasons. One,” she held out her finger, “no one else will pick it. It’s nigh impossible (she was proud of herself for that _nigh_ ) to defend something we use so liberally, so we will be the only ones who do it, which sets us apart from the crowd.  
  
“Two,” Rose continued, “it is an id-eo-logically (she was careful to pronounce the word without a mistake) harder position to take. We will have to dig deep into materials to write a worthwhile essay and Jamie—Professor Escar—” she corrected hastily, “—will appreciate our work and award us top marks.”

Rose sat back; satisfied with the way the last words had been said with a resounding conviction. She waited now, for an appropriate reaction. Scorpius would look at her aghast and say, _“you want to make our lives harder?”_ Albus would sigh with resignation and not say anything until a challenging moment crept in, at which point he would mutter, _“well you did choose this.”_ Maddy would shake her head with pity and say, _“mad. Absolutely bonkers.”_ Rose was confident her essay partner would give her none of these reactions. And she was right. 

“Okay.” Zara said. 

Boredom. Utter boredom; tinged with slight impatience if the frown around her lips was anything to go by. Rose stared at her, deflating with each passing second. 

“So—” Rose cleared her throat not as importantly now, “—are we in agreement?”

Zara shrugged, indifferently. “Yes.” 

This time it was Rose’s turn to say, “okay.” 

“Anything else?” Zara asked in a tone that suggested there had better not be anything else. 

This galvanised Rose. “Yes,” she said, “I propose we meet three times a week for the next month to discuss—and make notes of—what we have read. Once we are satisfied with our arguments, we may begin structuring and writing, which I anticipate will take us another month.”

“Okay,” Zara said for the seventh time in as many minutes and Rose felt the last of her patience snap. She surged to her feet, snatched up her parchment and half the books and said in her most wintry tones:

“I hope you can be counted on to play your part. _I_ am used to achieving a certain level of excellence and I expect the same from you.” 

No answer. Rose turned around, hoping to add more, words and tone both, and found Zara once again poring over the book and the quill scratching away busily. Rose threw one last glance at the entire scene and left. 

* * *

**VI**

“Big deal if the quill was writing on its own,” said Maddy that Sunday morning, from underneath the beech tree her mother had told Rose about. “Lots of quills write on their own.” 

Rose sighed, impatient with having to _explain_ something so basic. “It seemed like it was writing directly from her... thoughts. Straight from her head to the parchment.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So normal magical quills don’t write like that,” Rose snapped. 

An affronted silence.

Rose backtracked immediately. “I’m sorry,” she said and made eye contact, “It’s frustrating me. The charms for say, the self-answering quills are different—more contained—and more specialised. Her quill seemed like it was—well—hers.”

“And that’s different?” Maddy asked.

Rose sighed, going back to looking out at the lake, “yeah.” 

The four of them—Rose, Maddy, Samantha and Shannon—had decided to take advantage of the sudden sunny day, which still freezing cold, had given them an excuse to wander out of the castle. Rose’s bluebell flames provided a modicum of warmth and they huddled together, tightly wrapped in warm cloaks. Thankfully, no wind marred their faces and the blue skies and yellow sunlight—though not warm in the slightest—made for a cheery morning. At least that was the plan. Rose’s annoyance with her meeting with Zara spilled over to the next day. 

Samantha and Shannon, poring over their Herbology homework did not contribute to the conversation except for occasional words of assent. Maddy who had asked Rose to go over her attempt, basked in the knowledge that her work was done and many times better than the original after Rose cleaned it up. Samantha and Shannon had so far resisted the temptation of asking Rose for help which she respected, even if she didn’t mind re-doing entire assignments for Maddy. 

“If she bothers you so much,” Maddy said, “just do the essay on your own. It’s not like you need anyone else.” 

Rose fiddled with the pebbles on the perimeter of the circle they’d cleared. “That’s not the point.”

“You can tell Jamie she was difficult to work with!”

“Professor Escar." Rose said, and then sighed. "And it's not that. The point is to—figuring out how she does it.” 

This made Shannon and Sam look up from their tortuously detailed diagrams of a a Spitfire vine in the act of eating a fly. 

“How she _does_ it?” Sam repeated, blue eyes widening, “what—like her—her— _magic_?” Her voice turned into a yelp at the last word. 

“Yes.” Rose said, seeing no reason to lie. 

Her friends digested this information with expressions of worry. Then Maddy—who had been on her elbows flinging pebbles around—sat up with a horrified expression. “You’re going to try to be friends with her!”

“No!” Rose said—and then amended quickly, “well— _yes_ , but not like, real friends, just enough to know how.”

Shannon sucked on the back of her quill thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’ll be so easy.”

“To be her friend?”

“Well—that,” Shannon frowned, “ _and_ how she does… whatever she does. I don’t think she’d just _tell_ you. And if she did—would you understand?”

This brought Rose up short. She’d never considered—not once ever since she’d made the original plan—that there was anything she’d be unable to master, let alone comprehend. To have Shannon state it so… baldly, made her uncomfortable with her own confidence. With the others staring at her—two pairs of blue eyes and one brown—Rose looked away, to the lake where James Merrymort was flying dizzying circles above the surface. 

“Well,” she said eventually, “I have to try.” 

Her friends regarded this in silence until Maddy—flinging herself down again—said:

“As long as I— _we_ —stay your best friends!” 

“Of course!” Rose protested, “That will never change!”

Which was a lie, but Rose didn’t know that yet, so she could be forgiven. 

After the shipwreck of her last conversation with Zara—where they were afloat, but on several loosely held together planks—Rose was unsurprised, but still annoyed, when the former began to avoid her. Rose would show up for their prearranged meetings—after dinner, Monday, Wednesday and Friday—and find the nook either empty or Zara supposedly reading one of the books on her list (she’d simply swapped the covers and hadn’t even bothered to get other dimensions right,) or even once, drawing a miniature sketch on a roll of parchment with her quill. Any of Rose’s attempts to engage her in discussion were met with the tried and tested monosyllabic responses or—when Zara was pretending to read—an innocent finger to lips in a silent ask for quiet.

Rose’s confidence took many blows. She approached Zara with her ideas—each more exotic than the last from the increasingly complex books she was reading—and each time Zara would listen and dismiss. Their proximity helped Rose identify her closely guarded emotions and it aggravated her to know that at _best_ she was boring the Princess of Agardabah. 

The worst part? Rose couldn’t complain. Her dorm mates friends told her to go to Jamie—Professor Escar—and Albus, who apparently had enough of the topic since Scorpius was also mooning about Zara, deftly changed the subject every time. It was desperation—and the realisation that Rose had finally reached the very end of her tether of patience—that drove her to walking amongst the bookshelves, aimlessly pulling down books for inspiration. Perhaps chance led her to that particular bookshelf, or fate, but later when they talked about it, Rose realised the fulcrum of the next decade’s events rested on an amused conversation between Alias Smith—the Head Boy—and his girlfriend, Gryffindor prefect Catharine Wilson on the matter of fairytales. 

“You haven’t read it?” Catherine’s voice floated over the bookshelf next to Rose, “how—how—it’s a children’s book Al!”

Alias Smith laughed his deep good-natured laugh. He was very good looking with a thick head of hair and firm square jaw and had the most pleasing manner. On Maddy’s list of approachable boys in the school, he was third: behind Rose’s cousin Louis and another Ravenclaw fifth year Sahir, who played Chaser for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. 

“I’m Muggle-born, Cath,” Alias Smith said, “we grew up with _Cinderella_ not—” a rustling of pages, “— _Tales of Beedle the Bard_.”

More rustling as someone—Catherine?—pulled out other books and said, “okay what about this: _The Lonely Magi and Other Stories._ ”

“No—!” Alias said, and then, “—why is there a cheese cauldron on the cover?”  
  
“One of the stories is inspired by Humphrey Belcher’s cheese cauldron.”

“ _No way_.”

“Yes,” Catherine laughed as well, “this is quite a weird book even for its genre. Okay how about—” more books being pulled out and put back, “ _Dervish the Dwarf and Solomon’s Mines?_ ”  
  
Alias’s tone brightened, “dwarves? I’ve read _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_. Is it something like that?”

“ _Who_ is Snow White—?”

But Rose had tuned out of the rest of the conversation, rooted to the spot. A sudden memory—lifting itself from the far reaches of her mind—of her father reading out stories to her, pulling funny expressions and changing his voice… a sing-song voice for an odd rhyme that she’d found childish even as a child…

Rose straightened up and crossed into the aisle, interrupting Alias and Catherine in what was surely about to become a serious snogging session. 

“Sorry,” she said, trying—and failing—to hide her embarrassment, and also trying—and failing—to not stare at Catherine’s open buttons on the top of her shirt, “could I—um—I need to read that book.” 

Alias held out the slim volume in confusion, “this one?”

“Yes,” Rose tried not to grab it, “sorry, just something—part of—homework.” She finished helplessly, but Alias was already pressing it into her hand and from the corner of her eye she could see Catherine surreptitiously trying to redo her buttons.

Rose smiled her biggest—most charming—smile and said with stark relief. “Thank you!”

“No worries,” Alias Smith smiled back at her—he really was very good looking—but Rose didn’t wait around to chat. She beat a hasty retreat, driven partly by the mortification of interrupting their privacy, but mostly by finely tuned desperation that had reached a sort of crescendo: if this did not work, then nothing would. 

She met almost no one on her way back to the reading corner—it was Friday night and the library was empty except for stragglers—and Rose didn’t even stop to collect herself, collect her thoughts, before bursting back in and collapsing on the chair that Zara had agreed (not in good grace) to leave empty for her. 

“I’ve got it!” Rose paused to catch her breath, “I know how to start the essay!” 

Zara stared at her, saying nothing, but Rose hadn’t expected a reply or emotion, or even—really—acknowledgment. 

“Have you read this book?” Rose tossed _The Lonely Magi and Other Stories_ on to the centre table, squashing several reams of parchment sporting her handwriting.

Zara’s grey eyes flitted over it quickly. “No.”

“When you were younger?” Rose pressed, “a child?”

(Forgetting of course that they were still both children.)

“No.” 

Gratified—because now she could explain—Rose flipped open the book to the correct story, which was actually verse. 

“It’s called _If Magic Went Away_ ,” Rose said. She cleared her throat and began—

_If magic went away,_  
_Left us all alone, one day,_  
_What would we all do and say?_  
_If magic went away?_

_If magic went away,_  
_Would we all sit and pray?_  
_Close our eyes and begin to bay,_  
_If magic went away?_

_If magic went away,_  
_At night would we sleep while we lay?_  
_Calm and supine or nerves frayed?_  
_If magic went away?_

_If magic went away—_

“How many paragraphs is this?” Zara interrupted with a look—boredom—that Rose knew so well. 

“Twenty-two,” Rose admitted—and before she could be summarily dismissed—she tapped the book with her finger, “but it continues in the same vein. Imagining what we—magic folk would do—if we no longer had magic.

“It describes—in detail—how our way of life would fall apart. How we would cope, _how would we survive_ , and we don’t—until magic comes back at the end. And saves the day,” Rose flipped a few pages, “literally. That’s a line from the last paragraph.”

Zara said nothing. 

Rose said, her desperation slipping out now, “the poem is _supposed_ to be cautionary. So that we learn to be awed by—and appreciate—magic. So that kids don’t take it for granted when they grow up un magical household.”

Still Zara said nothing, her eyes flitting away to the massive tome she was reading.

“But if you look at it,” Rose continued doggedly, “If you _really_ look at it—what’s the poem saying? That we can’t survive without magic. That if magic disappears: we disappear. But it never mentions—not even once—that Muggles live without magic. And they get by just fine.” 

Zara looked up from her book. 

Rose felt a thrill of victory and continued, words tripping over themselves in her excitement. “And _that’s_ how we start the essay. All magic is bad, not because it is _evil_ , but because it’s _unnecessary_. We can do magic so we can’t even see a world without it. But there is a world—a whole half of the world— _more_ than half actually—” She paused to take breath, “that doesn’t just survive, but lives and _thrives_. So what is magic contributing? How is it helping? How is it a force of _good_ , when, if it disappears, we could learn to live like Muggles and the world would move on?”

Rose sat back, out of breath and exhausted. She felt as though she’d slit a vein and poured blood on to the table in front of them in torrential, bubbling spurts. Her head swam—she felt sick—and if someone asked her to perform magic at the moment, well, she could scarcely lift her wand. Still, reaching into a reserve so hidden she did not know she possessed it, she looked at Zara and said:

“Well?”

Rose hated how those eyes—and that face, that scar—comprehended her. She hated how raw and vulnerable she felt, hated knowing that if rejection came now, it would break something very fundamental that she had no way of putting back together. For that moment Zara Khan held the power to reshape her entire world, and the worst part was she didn’t know it.

Zara turned—Rose felt a searing stab of disappointment—raised her hands and brought them down. A flash of blue glowed in her irises, submerging the grey and turning them—just for an instant—a deep, rich blue. The quill and parchment, hovering motionless in midair, began a descent. At the same moment, Zara waved her fingers, as though shooing away something in slow motion, and the debris of scattered parchment, books, _The Lonely Magi and Other Stories_ , politely took themselves off the table and stacked up neatly on the floor, leaving the space empty for the descending parchment and quill to take residence. 

Zara picked up her quill—eagle-feathered—and held it out to Rose. 

Rose stared at her.

“Well?” Zara said, a touch of impatience, “don’t you want to write that down?”

Rose couldn’t find the appropriate words and so said, “but we have another two weeks of research to do before we start writing!”

Zara raised a single eyebrow. “And you think we’ll find a better introduction in that time?”

“I—” Rose floundered, “no—I mean—what do _you_ think?” 

Zara shrugged. “I think it’s the best introduction we’ll ever have.” 

A warm glow suffused Rose, chasing away her exhaustion, dulling her desperation, filling her up with energy. At last—at long, long last—she had acknowledgement. She had recognition. Now if Zara Khan refused to be proper partners—friends?—then Rose could rest easy, knowing she knew her potential, knowing that she would not dismiss her intelligence. 

Zara was still holding out her quill expectantly. Nervous, but growing in confidence, Rose reached for it. Their fingers brushed against each other with the faintest whisper. Zara drew back, shaking oversized sleeves over her fingertips. 

Rose knew to not look for an inkpot—no one could say she wasn’t observant—and put tip to parchment. She hesitated. 

“Just write what you said to me,” Zara said, “we can change it later.”

Rose took a deep breath. “Okay.” Another deep breath: “You could write it.”

“It’s your idea. And besides—” Zara held her gaze and Rose tried not to let her mind wander about what that blue flash meant or how it happened and focused on the task at hand. “You have better handwriting.”

Rose looked at the parchment Zara had moved off the table, taking in her thin, spidery letters that looked jumbled and cramped. Rose took yet another deep breath and forced the nerves from her body. It was just a first draft. 

Quill met parchment. The self-inking charm kicked in and words flowed from the nib just as surely as they had flowed from Rose’s mouth: in fast bursts of speed that corrected and doubled back in a bid to get everything right. 

Finished, she put the quill down and regarded the crossed out words. “It’s a mess.”

Zara drew the parchment towards her. This time Rose was ready for it. The flash of blue seemed milder, fainter as Zara’s fingers moved over the sentences: smudges fading, spellings correcting, words reorganising, often making place for a missing article or modifier to squeeze between them. Rose was transfixed. Simple magic—that they would learn in second year—but the ease; the economy of movement; the air of having done it many times; stole her imagination. Magic from a wand looked like an uglier cousin than this wandless version, where magic seemed to flow in all directions, powerful and in steady, undulating, waves, almost like—well—a moving, many-headed snake. 

Zara pushed the parchment back. “Here.”

Rose checked it out of habit. “Thank you.”

Their gazes met. Rose took the opportunity to examine her—really imprint all the vague details she’d been collecting so far into one verifiable image. An angular face to match the thin—all elbows and knees—build. Black hair, and very light grey eyes that were so uniform in colour, they seemed inhuman, White skin that suggested genetics but also a preference for being cocooned in dark places, far away from the sun. A thin mouth that leaned towards cruelty, but for the moment held a suggestion—of what? Respect? Amusement? Acceptance? Who knew?—in them.

Rose felt herself being examined in return and flushed at the thought of what she looked like. Chubby cheeks. Her father’s red hair and her mother’s curls. Freckles and pale skin that sunburnt too easily. Her mother’s brown eyes and her father’s build: already she was taller than most of her class. 

And then in the midst of this—battle of wits? Examination?—a warning bell in her head. 

Rose leaped out of the chair so fast she was in danger of putting her foot through the beginning of the essay she’d just written. She checked her watch and cursed in a way her mother would have disapproved but her cousin James would have given her a high-five for. 

“It’s late!” She told Zara who looked unperturbed. “We were supposed to be in our common rooms half an hour ago!”

Zara shrugged, and rolled away their essay. 

Rose didn’t have time to dissect her unconcern and turned, caught between wanting to sprint back to Gryffindor tower and to stay to cement this turning point. She cleared her throat—feebly, not with importance—and asked, hesitation building now that the moment had passed and she’d shown her un-coolness by her wanting to follow rules:

“So, are we meeting? Same time Monday?”

Zara looked at her, grey eyes unfathomable. Rose steeled herself to be dismissed—

“Tomorrow,” said the Princess of Agardabah. “We have lots to do.”

Rose smiled despite herself and the faintest suggestion of an answering glimmer appeared on that thin mouth. Relief, achievement and excitement coursed through Rose. She turned to leave saying, “see you tomorrow!” as cheerily as she said it to Scorpius and Albus—as though she and this strange Slytherin girl with magic in her veins—were friends.

* * *

**VII**

Rose was a good worrier—she learnt from the best, her mother—but for a change, it was unnecessary. Zara Khan was present and accounted for when Rose arrived—slightly late from a game of friendly Quidditch—not only reading from one of the actual books Rose had gathered, but also making notes on top of her original notes. 

When Rose sat down, noticing that the nook—which had been steadily begun to take on the appearance of the aftermath of a very localised hurricane—had been cleaned up and organised. Parchment sat stacked on the hard-back chair. Books stacked on the ground between both the comfortable armchairs. On the table: the notes that Zara was adding to—with her independent quill—as she read from one of the thicker volumes: _Magic: A Miracle or a Malevolence?_ A smaller stack of books sat next to the parchment on the table and Rose spied, The Magic of Magic amidst them. 

Zara did not look up as she sat down but waved over—literally—a stack of parchment, which had two sets of writing on them.   
  
“I’ve read these—” Another wave and the books on the table gave a sad sort of wiggle, “—and added to what you’ve written—” the parchment in Rose’s hands wiggled also, “and I’ve drawn out an outline based on everything.” Zara looked up then, grey eyes narrowed, “tell me what you think.”

Rose wanted to savour those last words—bask in them for at least a year—but it was clear to her she was suddenly behind on the curve that she had drawn. She smoothened out the parchment—stomach contracting in excitement as she saw arrows and words written between her own—and turned it around to see the outline, which went something like this:

_Introduction: Done. Final tweaking? More examples?_

_Body: Part one: elaborate on non-magical achievements without witchcraft or wizardry. Compare and contrast with key areas with magic presence: transport, communication, health(?), government._ A doodle of what looked like a box with smaller boxes in it, followed by: _examples? Planes, ships. Phones. Internet(?) Elections._

A line break followed. 

_Part two: Defend against key areas of non-magical concerns: war, environment, unstoppable growth(?)_

Another line break.

_Conclusion: ???_

The question marks had a doodle of a stick figure scratching its chin repeatedly. When Rose tried to put her thumb on it, it protested silently and dodged, climbing up to the top of the page. 

Rose looked up and found those uncanny grey eyes watching her. The irises were so light, they seemed to blend into the whites of her eyes in an eerie, disconcerting manner. Rose blinked, collecting her thoughts.  
  
“This is…” She said, looking for an appropriate word that didn’t declare her almost rabid excitement, “suitable.”

Zara nodded, “I’m not sure what the conclusion will be.”

“Once we fill in the gaps,” Rose said, “it may reveal itself to us—” She paused, and then added, unable to resist, “—like _magic_.” 

Zara rolled her eyes, which helped lessen their unsettling effect—the gesture so human after all—and Rose beamed back in return. She pulled out her own quill and inkpot, flipped over the parchment again and began to read. Next to her, Zara settled back in her armchair, drinking in every word while her quill scratched away busily. 

They met everyday, squeezing an hour in the library after dinner, an hour and a half if they ate quickly. In the beginning they didn’t talk as much as read and write, putting in the bigger blocks of what they wanted. Once they’d found and laid down their signposts, and made a list of references—this Zara insisted on organising alone—they began to talk. Haltingly at first, because they didn’t know each other well, but finding common ground with their approach, faster and easier, soon knowing where the other was heading when they began a sentence. 

Rose was gratified that her initial assumption about Zara Khan was correct. Behind the prodigious magical talent lay a vast wealth of knowledge and a razor sharp intelligence. But what Rose had not known—and was thus pleased to find out—was the cultural difference in their lives. At its smallest it showed itself in Zara’s accent—faint but unmistakable in some words—that made everything she said, more thoughtful, interesting and profound. At its most, she made offhand remarks about her childhood that revealed a society where magic and Muggle—a word Rose noticed she didn’t use—weren’t so carefully compartmentalised. She spoke of runic construction and spellweaving (not “casting”) in the same breath as video games and the Internet. Rose was more than charmed—she was obsessed. Obsessed with learning both: about her partner’s country (and childhood,) and her brand of wandless magic. 

This obsession didn’t go unnoticed. 

“You’re spending _so_ much time with her,” Maddy complained one Saturday morning as Rose got up from breakfast to leave for the library, “you promised this wouldn’t happen!”

“I promised she wouldn’t be my best friend,” Rose said hastily, trying to calm her down because Maddy’s wail had drawn attention from other Gryffindors at the table, especially the ones she was related to. “And she _isn’t_ —I just want to get this essay right.”

Maddy did not look convinced and did not lower her volume, “we’ve barely seen you all week!” 

“You did say you’d help with the chess tournament,” Sam said, softer and blue eyes less accusatory. 

Rose felt a stab of regret. “You’re right,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sam smiled, with Shannon nodding with a mouthful of porridge beside her, “we’d just like to hang out more.”

“And reading a book around us is _not_ hanging out,” Maddy added sulkily but at least she’d lowered her volume. 

Rose held up her hands, “message received. How about after lunch we’ll sort out the chess tournament?” 

Despite the glow of her friends’ approval, Rose felt a building panic at having to mention that she wouldn’t be back after lunch to Zara. They had started writing the body of the essay and Zara was interested in making sure the examples matched their words, often restructuring the sentence many times to get it right. It was the sort of attention to detail that would have driven anyone else—Albus, Scorpius, Maddy, her dad—mad but Rose loved every iteration of it. 

“Sorry,” she said for the second time in the day when they both rose for lunch, “I—ah, have some stuff to do afterwards. I won’t be able to come back.”

Zara looked at her, and despite the many hours they’d now spent together, Rose had difficulty with her expression. “What kind of stuff?”

Surprised that she’d asked—she so rarely seemed interested in Rose’s life outside this hidden corner—Rose felt silly explaining. 

“It’s a triad chess tournament,” she said, wincing internally at how… childish it sounded, “my friends and I are organising it and we have to set up the rules and format and stuff.”

“I see.”

“Do you um—play?”

“Triad chess?” Zara raised an eyebrow. 

Rose winced out loud this time. “Just chess.”

“Yes.”

“We should play sometime,” Rose said, “not in the tournament or anything—just us—when we take breaks.” 

A prolonged moment of silence an Rose thought she’d overstepped, made things too casual, over-friendly—

“Okay,” Zara said. 

Rose blinked. 

“See you tomorrow.” 

The triad chess tournament had been Rose’s idea and she was glad her friends made her prioritise it because she’d forgotten how much fun it was. This home-brewed style of chess that her dad had come up with so that he could play with both Rose and Hugo at the same time was something she’d always admired him for. Inventive, interesting and most importantly: fun. Three competitors faced off against each other on a custom board with standard rules except for one: adjacency bonuses. Because two could so easily gang up on one, this way, if one piece had pieces of different colours on either side of its movement path, it would be invulnerable to damage and twice as powerful. Traditional alliances were ineffective and required careful strategy if two people did want to work together to prevent from accidentally blocking each other—or worse—end up at the mercy of a supercharged piece. Since the gains were so little—after all the alliance would eventually break at the end when a final winner had to be declared—and the losses far greater, deals were fleeting and more situational, with players working to their own, individual advantages, often flipping between friend and foe to the others on alternate turns. 

Rose was especially proud of the third colour—a deep, blood red—that she’d picked out for her dad when he’d made the initial set. After more tweaks and a redesigned board, more triangular than square, he began selling it at the joke shop where it was met with wild approval. The best part: Rose and Hugo’s names were on the patent, and they earned from each board sold, with gold going into separate Gringotts vaults, locked until they were seventeen. 

Rose’s entrance into Hogwarts, stirred interest. The story of how triad chess came to be was stamped on the box of each set sold and many of its fans wanted to play her. Sebastian Cain strode up to the Gryffindor table in the first week and challenged her to a “duel,” so that he could prove he was better than her. Shannon, irritated by his tone, challenged him in turn, starting a cascading effect across the Houses. To make sense of this plethora of interest in the game, Rose conceived of the tournament. 

Samantha and Maddy put up fliers across common rooms and started a pool of players. Shannon and Rose—the appointed brains of the group—set about to draft a structure that was fair, exciting and consistent. By evening they’d had so many requests to play that Rose had to very seriously consider staggering matches throughout the rest of the year before a Hogwarts champion could be announced. She had Shannon were discussing how they would regulate the sets used—ask people to donate theirs or beg her dad for unsold inventory?—when a shadow fell across the table they were working on. 

Rose looked up. “Oh—hey Vic, want to put your name in to the draw?”

“Sure,” Victoire smiled but her blue eyes didn’t. “But also—can I talk to you a second?”

Rose had a feeling she knew what Vic wanted to talk to her about and it only intensified after she settled into the chair that Shannon abandoned with speed. Maddy and Sam also melted away, leaving them alone. Victoire Weasley was, after all, Head Girl and a Weasley to boot. 

“What’s up?” Rose asked, knowing what was, in fact, up. 

“Oh you know,” Victoire shrugged, feigning casualness, “I realised I hadn’t gotten around to talking to you about Hogwarts like I did with—well—everyone else.” 

James had warned her about this “talk” and told her if she sat through it silently, it would go by faster, so Rose said nothing. 

“I wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay. You know, classes, homework, hobbies… friends.”

Rose nodded, determined to keep her mouth shut. 

“I don’t—obviously— _like_ to interfere—” Victoire said and Rose had to clench her teeth together so that she didn’t point out this irony, “—but I overheard something today and, well, I like to look out for you guys, you know?”

Since an answer seemed expected of her, Rose said, “sure.” 

“So—” Victoire seemed to be struggling as much as Rose, which made her feel better, “—you and Zara Khan are—friends?”

“Essay partner,” Rose said, which was the truth. 

Victoire didn’t disguise her relief. “Oh.”

“Though I guess we can be friends?”

Victoire frowned, “ _oh._ ”

“Is there a problem?” Rose prompted. 

“Not a problem,” Victoire said hastily, “just…well, it’s good to be careful you know?”

Rose looked at her blankly. “Of what?”

“People,” Victoire said immediately. “People who want to be friends with us because of our name—our family—people who may have ulterior motives.”

Rose had a feeling if she pointed out that _she_ had the ulterior motives and not Zara, the conversation would have taken a longer, worse turn, so she didn’t respond. 

“Look,” Victoire said, “I’m not telling you, you _can’t_ be friends with her—”

“—Because that’s ridiculous.” Rose finished. She took in her oldest cousin’s face and added, “sorry.” 

“—But be careful.” Victoire repeated, “of everyone—but her especially—because—well—”

“Her magic?” Rose guessed.

Vicorie nodded, relieved that Rose had had to say it and not her. “Yes. And obviously you know—she’s—”

This time Rose had no idea what Vic was driving at. 

“—a Slytherin,” Victoire said impatiently.

Rose stared. “ _Albus_ is in Slytherin.”

Victoire waved her hands, “that’s different.”

“How?”

“Al is _family_!” Victoire exclaimed—and several heads turned their way. She sighed—in a big, deeply-exhausted-by-her-responsibility kind of way—and said, “Obviously not _all_ Slytherins are…suspect. And not all people who want to be your friend are trying to get in with the family, but—” she took a deep breath, “—it doesn’t hurt to be… _careful_. Because Rose, sometimes, when you realise—and you always realise too late—” Vic’s expression changed, got darker, more somber, “—it really hurts. And it’s difficult to—difficult to recover.”

Rose wanted, very badly, to ask who—and what—had happened but even she had enough sense to know it would irritate her cousin into another lecture. 

“So—” Victoire forced a smile, “—just be careful. That’s all. You would know best at the end of the day.” Her tone did not suggest she believed Rose, would, in fact, know best at the end of the day. 

“Okay,” Rose said, hoping the conversation was over. 

Her sister’s expression cleared, a weight seemingly coming off her shoulders. She said, “What’s this essay about anyway?”

“Oh!” Rose beamed—delighted to talk about something that she was an expert in—and said, “we have to defend between two statements: _all magic is good_ or _all magic is bad_. We picked bad.”

Silence.

Vic’s expression told her she was in for a longer conversation. 

* * *

**VIII**

The conclusion came to them innocuously. Rose had been reading out the introduction in her best speech voice—the kind her mum used to address ministerial meetings—just to make sure it held the right kind of _weight_ when Zara, who had been idly spinning Galleons into the air (and holding them up there to make a bizarre three-dimensional piece of art) sat up, thirty coins raining down on her as she lost concentration. 

“Of course!” she said. 

Rose—ducking for cover from the golden rain—looked at her, “what?”

“It’s not just what _is_ magic contributing,” Zara said, her face more animated than Rose had ever seen, “but what has magic _ever_ contributed? There hasn’t been a single moment in history where magic has led to a discovery or an invention that has benefited _everyone_. Only magic folk. So magic isn’t bad because it’s _unnecessary_ , it’s bad because it _discriminates_ , in a way non-magic achievements—science, art, fashion—have not discriminated against magicked people.” 

Rose stared, “oh.”

“Exactly,” Zara said, standing up and stretching, ignoring the Galleons she trod on, “ _‘oh!’_ That’s how we end the essay. That should send Jamie’s mind reeling!”

“Professor Escar,” Rose corrected automatically even though it was a lost cause. Everyone called her Jamie except to her face, which Rose suspected, was the exact opposite of what the professor actually wanted. Rose pushed the parchment and quill towards Zara and said, “You write the conclusion.” 

Zara frowned, “but you’ve written everything so far.”

“And you’ve edited everything,” Rose said, “let’s change it-up. And also—” she said, seeing Zara was going to argue, “—I haven’t grasped it fully. I don’t want to mess it up.” 

She braced, waiting for Zara to curl her lip at this suggestion of stupidity, but she said nothing, setting the quill to write while she stared at the parchment, hands clasped together loosely. The quill flew across the parchment neatly—insofar as Zara’s thin spidery handwriting allowed—that belied its speed. Rose waited until she had finished, accepted the parchment and then because she really couldn’t resist said, “ _how_ do you do that?”

Zara who was lifting the Galleons into the air again said, “what? _This?_ ”

Rose waved her hands, “that—the quill—all of it. How do you do it?”

Zara frowned, not in annoyance, but in genuine confusion. 

“I don’t know. It just… happens.”

Long after they had finished with the edits and headed back to their respective common rooms, Rose lay awake in bed, listening to Mara’s snores and looking out over the moonlit grounds. For one moment she experienced an exacerbated fist of pure envy in her heart—a wish that she too could do magic so easily and effortlessly that there was no learning required. It lay heavily in her chest, growing denser and darker until a particularly loud snore shook Rose from her reverie—and everyone else awake.

“Shut up Mara,” Maddy said sleepily.

“You shut up,” Mara replied, as bleary. 

Rose laughed and the feeling eased. She had a lot of things to be grateful for: family, friends, great professors and an exciting school. 

She turned over and went to sleep. 

Zara and Rose worked the essay—re-writing several parts—until they could absolutely not make it any more perfect. Exactly a week before it was due Zara proposed a novel solution. 

“Let it be,” she said to Rose who had been staring at the parchment in aggrieved silence, “it’s finished.” 

Rose sat back in her chair, “but I can think of so many counter arguments.”

“It doesn’t matter," Zara said, not looking up from another miniature sketch she was doing, “we did the best we could.”

Rose was not satisfied and Zara sensed this. She looked up, grey eyes clear like an overcast day that was all one big cloud, “why don’t you do some other homework?”

In bad grace Rose consented and finished her foot and a half long essay about the properties of heat in potion making within the hour. Zara read from her earlier, massive tome, her eagle-feathered quill keeping company to Rose’s goose-feathered one. When Rose finished, stretched and rolled her wrist, she asked, 

“What is that you’re reading?”

Zara flipped the cover so that Rose could read. In a golden script that look vaguely…Eastern looking, Rose thought, were the words:

_Wands and the Proliferation of Western Magic_

“Oh,” Rose said, knowing instinctively that the book was far beyond her faculties, “is it any good?”

Zara shrugged. “It’s interesting. Incomplete though.” 

Rose could not think of a response that would not betray her—bottomless—ignorance so said nothing. She looked at their essay again, rolled up to protect it and felt a stab of inferiority. This essay was the toughest piece of research and writing she’d ever done. But to Zara? It was probably another day of the week. Rose respected Zara’s abilities—was awed by her wandless magic even—but so far had managed to not be overwhelmed. Now Rose felt like she was a toy broomstick compared to Zara’s premium model Hurricane.

“Stop obsessing,” Zara murmured.

Rose jumped guiltily, before realising Zara meant the essay and not her.

“It’s done.”

Rose sighed, “I have all these other thoughts that don’t fit in the essay whirling around my head. It’s hard to—” she paused, struggling to find words to explain, “—to just switch off.”

“So write them down,” Zara waved over a roll of parchment and her inkpot, “and we can look them over before we give it in.” 

Rose didn’t believe this was a solution but she also didn’t want to find the end of Zara’s patience and get kicked out of their sanctum. Silently, she attacked parchment with quill until the faint alarm—signalling it was time to leave—began to ring. Zara wrinkled her nose as the intrusion and drummed her fingers once, cutting off the sound from Rose’s pocket.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Zara said, watching her pack her things away, “no one ever catches _me_ after curfew.”

Rose bit back the response which would acidly point out that she didn’t have the ability to turn invisible on command—like she suspected Zara of doing—and instead made up an excuse about her friends feeling left out. To this Zara said nothing but the faint curl of her lip told Rose all she needed.

“If you feel anxious over the next week,” Zara called out as Rose left, “tell me. We can come here and work it out—together.”

Was it Rose’s imagination or did Zara’s voice quiver on that last word? That night she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, until by blue-flamed light, wrote down her worries on a scrap of parchment. Against all odds, it did help, and Rose felt into an exhausted, tumultuous sleep, dreaming of seas made of golden Galleons upon which rafts of parchment floated. 

Zara made good on offer through the week, patiently listening to Rose’s breathless rants about why the essay was utter, utter trash and had to be redone, right from the beginning, quickly, they only had a few days left—her calm manner soothing Rose, her indifference to the looming deadline refusing to be drawn into Rose’s spiral. On Thursday night, when Rose had spent the entire hour pacing in their tiny, cramped square, Zara followed her with her clear eyes, never once reaching for _Wands and the Proliferation of Western Magic_ to get lost in. 

“I get it from my mum,” Rose told her, after a cramp forced her into the armchair, “my dad calms her down with bad jokes.” She smiled at the memory. “Dad jokes.”

Zara did not smile. “My mother is dead.”

Rose faltered. “Oh. I’m—” Nothing felt appropriate so she defaulted to the generic, “—sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Zara shrugged, looking away for the first time that night, “it’s not a big deal.” 

This, Rose knew, was a lie but she did not have the courage—or the ability—to broach the subject herself. Years would pass before they would talk about it and even then Rose would think she had done a poor job. 

“Anyway,” Zara said, “are you feeling better?”

Insofar a subject that made her feel much worse had come up, yes, Rose did feel better about the essay, but could not articulate such an emotion without bringing up the previous, terrible topic, and so chose to nod dumbly. 

“Good,” Zara said, “are you like this with every assignment?”

Rose flushed, shaken out of her embarrassment, “no! Just the ones—” she heaved a sigh, preparing to be mocked “—the ones I find difficult.” Zara, out of kindness of her condition, or because her mind was still elsewhere, did not mock her. She fiddled with the corner of her vast tome, eyes focused on a shelf far above both of them. An extra Galleon hung in the air, forgotten. It shocked Rose how quickly she’d gotten used to these feats of magic, how quickly she looked forward to the next new variety of it. She blew out her cheeks and pulled herself out of the chair. 

“I better leave,” she said, uncomfortable with leaving Zara alone. 

Zara’s gaze came back to her with a difficulty, as though from a great distance far away, “yes. Wouldn’t want your cousin to catch you wandering around.”

Momentarily horrified by the thought of Vic finding her breaking curfew—and especially her finding out _why_ —Rose packed her bag automatically. When she was done, Zara had once more slipped away to a place where she could not—and dared not—follow. 

“Good night,” Rose said quietly and was acknowledged with empty silence. 

Rose’s nerves reached breaking point as they filed into the empty classroom on Friday afternoon. Professor Escar was running late—staff meeting—and had sent word to get seated and leave their essays out on tables. Rose, who had barely spoken all morning, now found it impossible to make any sounds at all, so when Maddy said, “I wonder if she’ll read the essays out in class,” Rose moaned in despair. 

Maddy shoved her, “come off it. You know yours will be the best.”

“It won’t,” Rose’s pained whisper barely made it to her inkpot—placed with shaking hands—and quill. 

Maddy rolled her eyes but there—! Professor Escar came bounding into class, side of her head freshly shaven, wide smile and twinkling eyes. 

“Good afternoon,” she called, leaping up to the dais, “alas, today is the day I must request your essays from you, so—” she raised her wand and the parchments—rolled up and waiting on their desks—rose as one and floated towards her. 

Professor Escar counted them with a smile, “excellent, excellent. Thank you—” she swept the class smile growing wider, “—for completing it on time. _All_ of you,” she added, eyes twinkling in Scorpius’ direction. Rose knew Scorpius had been at his wits end with James Merrywort and Professor Escar had had to intervene—though Scorpius refused to divulge what exactly she’d done. 

“She told me not tell anyone,” he’d mumbled when Albus and Rose had confronted him. 

Professor Escar half sat on her table—her favourite position—and said, “I will take the evening to read and mark your essays—” Rose’s heart gave an uncomfortable thump, “—and on Sunday I will call each team to my office to discuss it with them.”

“What?” Maddy asked, outraged, “you’re not reading them out now?”

“Certainly not!” Professor Escar responded, tone suggesting she was horrified by the thought.

Maddy looked at her in befuddlement, “but—then—well—what will we be doing _now?_ ”

“Learning!” Professor Escar beamed and the class groaned. “Now, now,” she chided, “would you rather the test?” 

Rose was one of the few—perhaps the only—who would have rathered a test, but even she turned her textbook to the chapter on griffins with mixed emotions. On one hand, she knew her classmates would find their essay dull, archaic even with the kind of language used, on the other, she wanted to shock and awe with the statements they’d written in her handwriting—even the conclusion which Zara insisted she copy down again to a fresh sheet. 

But after the end of that comfortable, safe, boring—Rose winced—lesson, she was struck by an unwelcome thought that had, hitherto, had been hidden by her anxiety. Once the interview was done, her routine with Zara would cease and life would go back to normal again, though what normal was, Rose couldn’t quite remember anymore. 

The rest of Friday and most of Saturday passed in a blur of triad chess matches that Rose won despite the looming Sunday interview. Fred had stepped into help where Shannon and Rose floundered, suggesting charging a minimum fee that covered procuring extra sets for the matches (her father had agreed to let them "borrow" unsold stock,) and paid them a small rate for their services. 

“Never do anything for free,” Fred winked at them and passed over their share of the gold he was collecting. 

“If you can get paid?” Sam prompted.

“No, _never_ do anything for free.” Fred said, “if you can’t get paid—don’t do it.”

This advice, Rose felt, was something she agreed with in principle until she remembered she corrected half the class’s homework simply because they’d asked her to. 

Sebastian Cain got his match with her—and then a re-match because he lost his first match—but the real competition were her cousins Lucy and Molly from Ravenclaw who tag-teamed her without her realising it. When she did, it was already too late; Lucy had her checkmated. Rose might have been sore about this loss, had she not glanced over at the Slytherin table and seen Zara sitting there, spooning porridge into her mouth, her dumbbell of a book propped up against a dainty milk jug. She congratulated Lucy, gave Molly a pity wave—she was only six moves from a checkmate herself—and crossed the Great Hall which had students milling about on all tables, playing matches. 

“Hi,” Rose said, swinging herself on to the empty bench beside after a moment’s hesitation. 

Zara dragged herself away from the book, “oh. Good morning.” 

“It isn’t,” Rose grimaced, “I got beaten.”

“By whom?”

“My cousin Lucy.” 

“Hmmm,” Zara said turning back to her book. Then, unexpectedly, “family is _always_ the weakest link.”

Rose had no idea what that meant, so she changed the subject. “Do you want to play?”

“Absolutely not,” Zara took on an expression of unmitigated disgust. 

Rose rolled her eyes. “Not the tournament. With me—sometime.”   
  
“Oh.” Zara regarded her porridge, “yes, okay. Sometime.”

Happy that this one meeting at least was secure, Rose let out a relieved sigh.  
  
“Our interview with Jamie is at four o’ clock tomorrow,” Zara said, using her finger to turn a page.

It was a good thing Rose wasn’t eating because she would have choked. As it happened, she felt so blindsided that she forgot to correct Zara. “Four? In the evening?”

“Unless Jamie is a very early riser,” Zara said with a hint of a sneer. 

Rose ignored her, palpitations coming back in full force. 

“Hey,” Zara said, impatiently grabbing her wrist without taking her eyes off the book, “it’ll be okay. Here—” she shoved a plate of toast, “—eat something.” 

Rose did not want toast. “I do not want toast.” 

Zara sighed, and finally looked at her. Her impatience cut an angular slant on her features, brow wrinkled with arrogance, mouth twisted with superiority. Whatever she saw on Rose’s face softened them and she said softly, “do you want to visit the library? You can write stuff down, we can go over it.”

Rose opened her mouth—though she did not know what she would say because she still had the tournament to supervise—and a figure loomed across them. Zara dropped her wrist as though burnt by it and Rose refocused on a grinning Scorpius. 

“Hey Rose!” He clambered on to the other side of the bench, “heard you lost—sorry about that!” He did not sound very sorry at all, which was unsurprising, because Rose had demolished him in ten moves the night before. 

Rose cleared her throat—Zara’s eyes and gone magnet-like back to her book—and found some equilibrium. “Yeah… Lucy snuck up on me.” 

“Mmm,” Scorpius said, helping himself to the toast Rose did not want, “yes, like how you snuck up on me yesterday.” 

Rose rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Zara did not take her eyes off the page though her head tilted a little in her direction. 

“See you tomorrow at four,” Rose said to her, and left Scorpius with the love of his life, though whether Zara felt the same way, was very doubtful indeed. 

Sunday morning dawned with sunshine and blue skies. Cold but not freezing, so Rose borrowed James’ broom and went for a spin around the pitch before handing it back to him when the Gryffindor team came out to practice. Stephen Bane—tipped to be the next Gryffindor captain—said, “you should try out for the team next year,” which had Rose walking on air well after breakfast. 

By noon her nerves returned. Coincidentally she had to fill in for a match when Baxter Brooks—his real name Rose had to be told repeatedly—was pulled out after running afoul potion master Professor Seer well after midnight. What Baxter had been doing in Professor Seer’s personal stores he never said, which irked Professor Seer more, and extended the detention into the next week rendering Brooks unable to play the Slytherin-Hufflepuff Quidditch match. 

“This is my chance,” Scorpius crowed, he was a seeker like his father, and was friendly with Matthias Nott the fifth-year Slytherin captain but Professor Witherwatch refused to grant him permission. “We’ve got two backup seekers for Merlin’s sake,” she snapped at Nott, “use one of them. Mister Malfoy will get his chance next year.” 

Albus filled her in on all this during the match where she held two separate conversations (Sam was also asking for help doing the crossword) and separately worried about the evening. 

“Scorp must be foaming at the mouth,” Rose said, egging her nervous pawn forward to take out the Bishop that had blundered unwittingly into its path.

“Last I heard he was screaming prejudice at Witherwatch,” said Albus mildly. 

“Oooh, prejudice,” Sam sang, “thanks Al—I was puzzling over that.” 

Rose finished the game ten minutes later, successfully checkmating both her opponents (Reese Sarin, a fifth-year Ravenclaw and Lucas Jordan a third-year Gryffindor) within four moves of each other. Her dad would have been proud. As for her mum—

At quarter to four, Rose dressed herself in school robes, spending precious minutes straightening her tie over and over again. She met Zara—also in school robes, her emerald tie and sweater to Rose’s scarlet—and together they knocked and entered. 

Rose had never been to a Professor’s office and looked around as fast as she could as they entered. It was a comfortable, cosy room with a roaring fire and interesting abstract art on the walls. One corner had been converted into a kind of sitting room with a couch and two armchairs, and the other corner had Professor Escar’s study. On the right hand wall stretched a cabinet filled with items haphazardly—magical and mundane—ranging from a solid crystal skull to a bottle of Ogden’s Old Fireball Whisky. 

“Come in, come in,” Professor Escar called from behind her tiny table overflowing with parchment, “have a seat—tea?”

Neither of them answered but for different reasons: Zara because of her inability to conform to the mildest of standards of polite conversation with strangers, and Rose because she was gaping at her Professor. 

Safe in the privacy of her office Professor Escar had divested herself her robes and was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. She wore faux dragonskin boots that had silver streaks and hair looked more rumpled—and cooler—than ever. But the pièce de résistance (a phrase she learnt from Dominique) was a long detailed tattoo of a snake running down the length of her arm, with its jaws engraved along the index finger and thumb, so that when she stretched her fingers apart, the jaw seemed to open. Rose had been brought up in a household of manners but it took Jamie—Professor Escar!—clearing her throat to wrench her gaze away. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Professor Escar smiled. 

Rose found her voice, “it’s _so_ cool.”

“It was a seventeenth birthday present to myself,” Professor Escar said, “cost me all my savings.” She paused, regarded the snake, “totally worth it.” She looked up at them and fished out a roll of parchment from the stack on her table. “Anyway—”

Rose’s apprehension—momentarily forgotten—came rushing back and she had an urgent desire to reach across the arms of the chair and grasp Zara’s hand for solidarity. This, she suspected, would not have gone down well with the Princess of Agardabah, and instead simply sat on her hands. 

“Firstly,” Professor Escar unrolled the essay, “I would like to thank you both for proving me much needed relief from reading twelve different essays on how magic can absolutely, verifiably, do no wrong.” 

Rose’s stomach roiled, but with joy this time. 

“That was Rose’s idea,” Zara said, unexpectedly. 

Professor Escar raised her eyebrows. “Really? Well—thank you Rose.” 

Rose had to dampen the beam that was splitting its way out of her mouth. 

“Secondly,” Professor Escar smoothened the parchment out, “I would like to thank you again for the privilege of letting me read such a superbly well-constructed piece of literature.”

Rose felt the beginnings of a hot flush of happy embarrassment and found that she could no longer look at her Professor in the eye. 

“It’s rare,” Professor Escar continued, “even for essays written by adults to have such strong structure. The introduction alone was—”

“That was also Rose,” Zara interrupted. 

Professor Escar inclined her head but did not break stride, “—enough to put you well above your peers. I loved your many examples to illustrate your thoughts and I liked how strong and interesting the conclusion was.”

“That was Zara,” Rose felt compelled to say, lest anyone—least of all Professor Escar—think she could have pulled this off on her own. 

Professor Escar smiled, “I am glad to see such collaboration—while not the main goal of the exercise, still very much a happy result—between you two.”

“Zara is easy to work with,” Rose said which was such an utter and blatant lie even her dad would have blushed to hear it. 

Professor Escar pulled out two more rolled parchments and handed one to each of them. “My in-depth thoughts—and some mild criticisms—of the essay are here, for your perusal when you have the time. But don’t worry—” she caught side of Rose’s expression at the word ‘ _criticism_ ,’ “—they are merely _suggestions_ for improvement. Your essay remains the best I’ve seen in years—let alone in this class—and I am sad I cannot award more than fifty points apiece for the enormous amount of work you’ve both put into it.”

Rose’s mouth dropped. Fifty points? Each? True, her consistent answering in class over the year had possibly netted her more than that but to have such a large sum come, all in one go, because of one—admittedly challenging—essay was like birthday come early.   
  
“Thank you Professor,” Rose managed. 

Zara, predictably, said nothing. 

“Now,” Professor Escar examined them, palms resting flat against the wood, “if I may ask you a few questions? Not like a test,” she said hastily, once again seeing Rose’s face, “just so that I understand you. 

“If I were to ask… what did you learn from the exercise? Zara?”

Rose’s mind—relieved it hadn’t been put on stage and ordered to display talent first—chugged away at what she would say. She turned to look at her partner who was expending energy examining her fingernails. 

“To not make absolute statements,” she said. 

Rose rolled her eyes.

Professor Escar smiled, unperturbed. “And?” She prompted. 

Zara sighed, deigning to look up and Rose tamped down on the flash of irritation. She could forgive Zara snobbery when it came to her peers but it was unjustified when wielded against Professors, especially one as… cool—she tripped over the other word that came to mind, unbidden—as Professor Escar. 

“To not take anything for granted,” Zara said, “that everything, falls apart when held to close introspection.” 

Professor Escar digested these ominous words with ease. “And would you find application of this in real life?”

“Yes,” said Zara, but did not elaborate. 

Professor Escar did not push her. She turned to Rose—who braced herself—and said kindly, “and you Rose? What did you learn from this exercise?”

“I learnt how to _think_ ,” Rose said honestly, but also because she remembered in perfect detail what their Professor had asked of them in that lesson months ago. “Especially how to think constructively. To use information I’ve gathered to further my own ideas.”

Professor Escar’s sunny smile made Rose feel only a little bad. The actual, entire truth of what she’d learnt was far too complicated—and personal—to share, especially with Zara sitting right there. 

“And you would find application of this in real life?”

Rose nodded. “Yes, in fact—” she paused, waiting for Professor Escar to nod encouragingly, “—I’d love it if we got to do something like this again. Every year maybe? It would help so much.” 

Rose felt safe in the knowledge that Zara was the only one of her classmates she could make this suggestion in front of without being ostracised for the rest of her schooling. 

“Unfortunately,” Professor Escar sighed, “I cannot do away with the midterm test from next year. And I don’t think your classmates would appreciate doing something like this on top a test.” 

“Oh.” Rose said, crestfallen 

“I’m sorry, Rose.”

“No, that’s okay!” Rose forced a smile, “thank you anyway. I learnt so much!”

“As did I,” Professor Escar said, handing them both chocolate frogs (as an apology? A prize?) “I learnt especially to never underestimate anyone—not even eleven-year-olds.” 

She twinkled at them as they bid goodbye and Rose tried very hard not to stare, not just at the awesome tattoo, but at her in general, this image of confidence and intelligence and good humour, with the cool bracelets and hair and clothes. When they shut the door behind them, Rose turned to Zara, trying to think of reasons they could hang out without being too obvious about it. 

“We could do it ourselves you know.” Zara said, breaking her train of thought. 

Rose stared at her. “Do what?”

“Research,” Zara loosened her tie, “we can look up stuff and write about it.”

“But Jamie—Professor Escar—”

Zara snorted with disgust, “Sod Jamie. We don’t need her.” 

“ _Oh_.” Rose’s initial surprise vanished under a bubbling sea of joy. 

“We can meet at the usual time. And finish reading all the books you found to begin with. And after that—” Zara shrugged, “—anything we want. And _nothing_ to do with schoolwork.” 

That last word she said with disgust as well. 

Rose grinned, “That’s a great idea.” 

“Okay.” Zara succeeded in unraveling the entire tie and shoving it into her pocket. “See you tomorrow then—at the usual place.” 

“After dinner,” Rose promised.

Zara nodded, turned and walked away. If Rose had been paying attention she would have noticed the paintings’ inhabitants shying away from her partner as she made her way down the corridor, often bleating cries of distress. But Rose didn’t notice. She was already lost in thought, picturing them both, up to their ears in books and parchment and floating Galleons, arguing theories and chucking quills at each other, finishing homework, talking about their days, exchanging gossip about classmates and ranting about unfair teachers. 

It was, finally, finally, the beginning of their friendship. 


End file.
